Corrupting the Angels
by Nerikla
Summary: At the heart of corruption, there must always be a fulcrum. The Manhattan newsies are about to face a hidden terror, which will worm itself from the inside out. Fourth chapter up!
1. First Comes Betrayal

There is a puddle at my feet. The cobblestones have broken where I stand, and all that is left of last night's rain are the numerous puddles littering the streets. The sky is gray, and when I look down into the water, I can see my own uncertain face staring back up at me.

  


I used to know everything that I wanted. I used to want to be a doctor, to go through medical school and save people's lives. That dream crumbled as I quit school to become a newsie. Now, as a newsie, I can look back on that dream and laugh. My family would never be able to put me through medical school. The streets have hardened me. I no longer care for soft, idle whims, but instead focus intently on reality. 

  


Sometimes I wish I could return to the boy that I used to be. If only I could talk to a younger David Jacobs, and lecture him on the hard years that lay ahead, then perhaps I would be appeased. But the truth is that I will never be able to do more than remember the child I was, and smile regretfully at what I have lost. 

  


The strike has probably been the biggest and most important event to have taken place so far in my life. I have many more years ahead to look forward to, however. But I don't know what I will do when I turn twenty and am too old to become a newsie. Despite the promise I made my father, both he and I know that I will never return to school.

  


Being one of Jack Kelly's most favored and trusted newsies is a wonderful thing. Less wonderful is having him date my sister. I'm not jealous. I'm just...uncertain of how to handle their relationship. Jack is my best friend, and my family loves him.

  


It's just that I know he doesn't love Sarah.

  


Sarah doesn't know what love is. Neither, I believe, does Jack.

  


But I do.

  


Jack just isn't good enough for my sister. He has lied to me many times, and I know his dream of going to Sante Fe is absolute bullshit. It will never happen, I can see it in his dark green eyes every time he speaks of leaving. He doesn't have the balls to leave New York. Our Cowboy has grown comfortable as the leader of Manhattan, and likes his position of power. He'll never be able to free himself from it.

  


The newsies need him. Despite how tough they all make themselves out to be, they need to be led. When Jack betrayed us, I had to step up to that position, or chaos would surely have ensued. I was glad to give Jack back the reins when he returned. I don't like being in absolute control.

I prefer to do the nudging from the sidelines. Jack thinks he comes up with all of his brilliant ideas on his own. No matter how amazingly intelligent he believes himself to be, I know differently. I am the Walking Mouth. I give him the words, and he gives them power. We work well together.

As I stare at my reflection, an odd smile tugs at my mouth. Jack and Sarah will be joining me shortly. Sarah pretended to have forgotten something at the house, and Jack went with her to help her find it. Perhaps she left her virginity behind. Who knows? 

Les tags along at my heels. He doesn't even notice as I grow still, watching the puddle. Moments later he runs past, his foot landing in the center of the water so that it splashes against my pants. Snapped out of the moment, I voice my irritation. Les grins and ducks away from my outstretched hands.

Brothers are so impossibly annoying. There are times when I love Les, and times when I want nothing more than to swat him away, like an annoying gnat. For the moment I am glad Jack is gone. Les doesn't even notice when a strange boy looks out of an old shop. I quirk an eyebrow at him, and he carefully comes out of the peeling red door, looking around us.

"Ignore the kid," I tell the boy, rolling my eyes slightly as Les trips in a puddle. 

"Youse got what Twitch wants?"

"Youse got my money?" I mock his accent as I reply. The boy, a Harlem newsie, is short and thin. His brown hair is tangled, as though he's never combed it before. There is a smudge of dirt on his chin. He can't be more than thirteen.

Money is what makes the world go round. Pa can't go back to work until his arm is fixed, and his arm won't heal right unless a doctor can look at it. My family needs this money. 

I swap information with the Harlem boy, who stoutly informs me his name is Crane. I raise my eyebrows as we speak. I can hear Jack and Sarah returning even though they are a good distance away. I get my money, stowing it away safely in one of my reinforced pockets.

"Go," I order Crane, who disappears silently into the shop.

"Who was that?" Les asks cheerfully, poking at a soggy worm on the ground. 

"You didn't see? It was Snipe," I shrug in reply. Crane is about the same height as Snipeshooter, and I am an excellent liar. My brother's face falls.

"Aw, he should o' stayed an' played wit' me," Les sighs. He is beginning to get a strong New York accent, a fact that distresses my mother to no end.

As my sister and Jack return, I smile and we continue on our way. I watch Jack snake his arm around Sarah's waist, and allow myself to scowl now that their backs are to me.

Two can play at the game of deception, Jack. And I will win.

Just watch me.


	2. Through Naivety We Fall

Author's Note: I have decided to do each chapter from a different character's perspective. I will include the name of the character at beginning of each chapter to clarify for the reader. Thanks so much for your reviews, they mean the world to me.

-

Jack

-

  


Not only is Mrs. Jacobs a beautiful woman, she can also cook a wonderful meal. The Jacobs family always welcomes me at their table, and I am more than happy to join them. I can save up my money and still be able to eat. They add a little water to their soup and cut their bread thinner, just so I can tuck in with them. They're great. I always feel at home here. 

  


David has been giving me meaningful, worried glances all throughout dinner. There is a little bit of soup left in the bottom of my bowl, but I drop my spoon and thank Mrs, Jacobs for the delicious meal. I follow my best friend to the fire escape outside of his house, where I've slept whenever I have to get out of the Lodging House. We both lean against the rail, staring into the empty street below us.

  


"Twitch's been lookin' to take Manhattan from you, Jack," Dave tells me, his voice low as though he's trying to keep it from cracking.

  


"I know that," I shrug. David already knows that I am aware of this. Spot and I have already begun discussing how we'll keep the Harlem bastard in his place. For now, all I can do is tighten my defenses and keep a careful eye on all newcomers.

  


"Starting from the inside out." My curly-haired friend turns away, finding a black stair to sit on. The metal is cold, so I don't follow suit. What is he playing at?

  


"What?" I sound thick-tongued and ignorant, like a two year old. Thank goodness none of the boys are here.

  


"He's trying to get at you by using someone we trust." I've never seen the Walking Mouth look so serious, or so terrified. In the night, his blue eyes seem even darker and larger than usual. 

  


It takes several moments for me to understand what he is saying. When comprehension hits me, I feel cold, from the very tips of my fingers to my toes, though they are encased in rough leather boots. I tap my fingers against the rail. "Do you know who?" I finally ask. My voice is hoarse.

  


"Yes," David whispers. He shivers in the chilly air, watching my face carefully. For a second he is about to say something, then stops himself. My face is open, trusting. I watch him steadily.

  


"Racetrack," My friend admits, covering his face with his hands as though the information he has just given me is too much. I wish he would meet my eyes. Perhaps then I could see a reflection of my own horror, my terror at hearing that one of my best friends is...betraying me.

  


Racetrack.

  


He's been with me since the beginning. Loose with insults but tight with important information, I have always trusted the Italian newsie. I tease him mercilessly about his obsession with horses and betting, and he's even been known to beat me at cards. He constantly gets himself into trouble, and I constantly get him out of it.

  


How could he do this to me?

  


"How d'you know?" As soon as the words are out of my mouth I regret them. I don't want to know. I don't even want to think.

  


"I heard him talking. Les and I were waiting for you and Sarah to get back, and he was in this dingy old shop with a Harlem newsie. The kid was short, kind of looked like Snipe. And Race said..." David trails off, hurt written all over his face.

  


"Yeah?" I prompt him, swallowing hard.

  


"He was tellin' the Harlem newsie all about the Lodging House. And about how you eat with my family, and what you wear, and how you talk, and who you trust. Everything, Jack. He told him _everything_." It's too much for David. He's never been good with this side of the newsie lifestyle. He's shaking now, though he's trying not to let me see. His shoulders tremble, coming into view as once again he turns away from me.

  


"Shit." My mind is so befuddled that I can't think of anything to say. This has all come at me too hard, too fast. I know how to handle injustices thrown at me by my employer. I know how to openly insult our newspaper distributer, and how to make alliances when they're needed. I've held secret meetings before, proposed wars between different groups of newsies, protected my borders ever since I rose to the position of leader of the Manhattan newsies.

  


But I don't know what to do with a friend who has betrayed me.

  


The Walking Mouth has an answer for me, though. "We have to let Race know that we know. If he admits what he's done, then he can stay with us. But if he refuses to confess...Jack, we have to make sure the rest of the newsies are kept safe. We can't keep someone in the Lodging House who might go and slit the throats of the newsies while they sleep."

  


"Race wouldn't kill nobody," I protest.

  


"We never thought he would betray us, either." David's face crumples. 

  


The truth of that statement hurts. "I...I'll tell him in the morning. But, Dave, you gotta come wit' me."

  


"I'll come, I promise. You should probably sleep at my place tonight. You can't walk back to the House in the dark...you never know who's working for Twitch." For some reason, David's warning seems too earnest. I jerk my head, disagreeing.

  


"If I can't walk 'round my own _territory_ at night, Davey, what sort of leader am I?"

  


"A smart one," David counters, tucking his chin downwards.

  


"I can't leave the boys wit' Race for t'night!" 

  


But the Walking Mouth always has an answer. "Twitch doesn't want them, Jack. He wants _you._"

  


I'm supposed to be brave. The fearless Cowboy, who stands up to Spot Conlon and is as fair as he is smart. I beat Pulitzer, didn't I? Surely I can beat one stupid, arrogant Harlem boy who thinks he can monopolize the enterprise newsies.

  


"I'll say for t'night, but I'm gonna get up real early," I finally decide. David nods, looking triumphant. I've accepted his idea. Whenever I approve of something he comes up with, he always looks so pleased.

  


"You can sleep in my bed. I'll take the floor," My friend offers. I grin at him. David will always be there for me when I need him, with a solution to my problems. He always knows what to do.

  


"Thanks, Davey." He goes inside to inform his mother that I will be staying. Sarah's window is shut tightly, a fact that I'm glad of. No one can know of the conversation that just took place. I look below, satisfied that no one is on the deserted, dark street.

  


I'll sleep heavily tonight, but I'll be gone before the sun rises. My boys need me.

  


And I need them. 


	3. The Noose Tightens

Chapter Three

The Noose Tightens

  


-

Racetrack

-

  


Nighttime always relaxes me. It's a time for messing around with my friends, the worries of the day over. You have as many pennies as you've earned jingling in your pocket, and you don't have to worry about selling papes for another eight hours. You're free to kick back and bet all of your money in a poker game.

  


Cards are fun in the Lodging House- the only decent opponent I play is Blink, so I rip off everyone else who dares try a hand with me. It's funny how every newsie who sidles up to me has that hopeful gleam in their eyes. This time will be different, they tell themselves.

  


But it never is.

  


I'm lounging on my stomach on my bunk, idly throwing dice with Skittery and Specs. Those two are good to talk with, but lousy at games. I've already conned Snipeshooter out of two pennies, so I'm in a pretty good mood. 

  


Boots comes running up to me, his eyes wide against his dark face. "Race, there's someone here t'see ya!" He tells me excitedly. We rarely get visitors. As I stand and stretch briefly, I realize that Jack isn't back yet. With Davey and Cowboy gone, I suppose I'm in charge for the night.

  


I follow Boots to the door, aware of the eyes of my friends resting on my back. Briefly I pray that this visitor isn't Conlon. Spot and I have never gotten along.

  


It isn't Spot, though. The stranger watches to make sure I've seen him, then runs down the stairs and opens the door at the foot of them, turning to make sure I'm following. Kloppman gives me a funny look and reminds me I'd better not take longer than half an hour, because he'll be locking up then. Looks like Jack won't make it back home for the night.

  


I pull the door shut behind me, allowing myself to look over the stranger. The kid is around my height, maybe a year or two older, with scarred knuckles and wide shoulders. I hardly even glance at his face. On the streets you learn that facial features rarely matter- it's the strength and size of your opponent that you should take note of.

  


Opponent? Odd, isn't it, how defensive I get. I narrow my eyes at the kid, jerking my chin slightly to indicate I'm waiting for an explanation.

  


He shuffles his feet, glancing to his left. The movement immediately makes me wary. Why have I come out here alone? I should have taken Swifty with me, or one of the bigger guys.

  


"What the fuck d'you want?" I demand irritably when I get no response. The newsie stares at me again, his dark brown eyes narrowed. They glitter in the moonlight. The moon is the only real light out at night- the stars are choked away by the streetlights and smog. I don't know why I'm so suspicious of this kid.

  


No reply again. He turns to his left, repeating the previous motion. Fuck. There had better not be someone else with him. "What's yer problem? Cat got yer tongue?" I taunt, grumbling an Italian curse under my breath. Who the Hell does this kid think he is?

  


"Shut up," The kid snaps at me, cocking his head, obviously listening for something. I bristle. I must be imagining things. I can soak this kid, I just know it. We're evenly matched, but I've taken down older men two heads taller than me. 

  


"What did you just say?" I deliberately draw out my words. In my agitation, my accent has turned more Italian than anything. I scowl ferociously.

  


"I said shut up, you scab!" The boy responds vehemently, fixing me with a beady glare. This is too much for me. I tackle him, bringing him to the ground in an instant. The thing that shocks me the most is that he doesn't struggle. I pin his elbows to the ground with my knees. Even though we're the same weight, he doesn't try to throw me off. I dig my knees into his elbows, knowing it must hurt like Hell. The kid doesn't even cry out.

  


"Who are you?" I request forcefully, nearly snarling. In seconds I've turned from a mildly irritated, distrustful newsie into a snapping Italian terror. When he doesn't reply I jerk my knees painfully into him again, then lift his head by his nose and smack it down on the cobblestones. Not hard enough to knock him unconscious, but hard enough that finally he cries out in pain.

  


"I...I'm Ferry!" The boy gasps, hunching his shoulders. I don't move my knees, and rest my hands heavily on his chest.

  


"Well, that explains everyt'ing, now doesn't it?" I quip sarcastically.

  


"I'm from Harlem." He growls. I stare. Harlem? Where that bitch Twitch is leader? He takes my surprise for terror and actually spits in my face. I hit him once, hard, then wipe the spittle away with one of my calloused hands. Stupid little bastard.

  


"Inside o' that building are forty boys who'd be more than glad t'kick yer sorry ass," Once again I speak slowly, my voice almost a drawl. Holy shit- I almost sound like Jack. "Don't ya realize the odds're terrible? Thirty t'one. I wouldn't bet on you any day." Why am I reasoning with this kid? I don't give a flying fuck for anyone from Harlem.

  


"Racetrack..." Ferry winces. The side of his face is puffing up. As he speaks, he grows less hesitant. "Real name Anthony Higgins. Parents both immigrated from Italy. Mother was a factory worker, 'til she got killed in an accident wit' a machine. Father was a dirty drunk who beat Racetrack weekly. Race ran away, an' his father was shot by some men coming t'collect money Race's dad lost in a bet. His body was found floating in t'river. Racetrack stays away from water now. He sells around fifty papes a day, sometimes more if it's a good day for sellin'. Then he catches a ride t'the tracks. Sometimes he pays for his papes with tips on who t'bet on. He's fond of cigars, and his hands shake if he doesn't get one every eight hours or so. Usually wears a brown vest. Has his eye on a pretty blonde girl named Jamie, but all o' the Manhattan newsies know Jamie would never date him. She's from a respectable family. His best friends're Jack, Mush, and Kid Blink. He an' David get along well. When agitated he'll speak in Italian, though he does his best not t'use the language. He can't read, but he can write his name. Can never keep his mouth shut in an argument. Always has t'have the last word. Fights well, especially in mob scenes- his blood heats up and he hardly knows what he's doin'. He pins people with his knees, is left-handed. Uses sticks t'fight wit' if the opportunity presents itself. Shaves every three days, bathes once a week. Steals better than he lets on, an' cheats well too. Puts a sock on his left foot, then his right. Has a nasty scar on his back that never went away, probably left from his father. Has a thing for blondes. Really, likes any girl who isn't Italian. Sells in Little Italy sometimes, makes good money there. Likes t'drink, especially on Saturdays. Likes horses a lot, too. Grumpy in the mornings."

  


As Ferry speaks, I just stare at him. How does he know that about my Pa? How does he know...all of that? I put my left sock on first? No one knows all that about me, not even _me._ Who is this kid? Who is this little, stinking shit of a Harlem newsie? 

  


"Che...che perché lo fai? A' a farti fottere! Andarsene, pezzo di merda!"

I'm speaking in Italian now, so rapid I can't stop it. Each word drops from my mouth scorchingly and sizzles like tears on hot cobblestones. I am so angry I can tell my cheeks are hot with blood. I draw my fist back and hit him as hard as I can. I do it again.

He's smiling.

Smiling at me, like he wants me to hit him.

Shit.

I have to go inside. I have to walk away from this.

I'm shaking. Shaking so bad that I feel like I'm going to vomit. I'm not cold, not from the night. His words have spooked me even worse than I thought. I'm like one of those horses at the tracks that everyone bets on that gets real scared at the last second and loses the race. Only I'm even more frightened than that.

I stand up, slowly, putting my entire weight into my knees before standing. I want him to hurt. His nose is bleeding- there is blood on my fist. Stupid, stupid. I want to hit him again, but by now even my teeth are chattering. Any blow by me will be wild and do little damage.

He gets up, slowly. I force myself to keep away from him, but I watch him with half-lidded, suspicious eyes. He looks like shit. A slow smirk crawls across my face.

"Here," Ferry tells me, darting at me. I dance away, ready to swing at him again, but he grabs my hand and presses something into it. I disbelievingly try to punch him with that fist but he's out of my reach. I try to run after him but he's quicker than I am, darting down the street. 

"Say hi to Davey for me!" The Harlem boy yells over his shoulder. I give up my chase, dismissing it as futile. Shaken and disturbed, I bang on the door of the Lodging House, shouting for Kloppman to let me in. The elderly man opens the door, scolding me. He locks it behind me with his frail hands, and I run up the stairs before he has a chance to lecture me.

The boys all look up as I enter, panting. Only the youngest newsies are asleep- the rest are still talking loudly, joking around and playing cards. My bloody fist is still clenched. I remember that the Harlem kid put something inside of it, and slowly open my fingers. 

Money.

Twenty-five entire cents. I've never held this much money in my hand at one time.

Why did Ferry give it to me? As a _reward_? A reward for punching him and making him bleed?

It makes no sense. I am so terribly confused right now. With all of these faces staring at me I can't think. I walk silently past the boys who call out to me and into the washroom, thankful for the door with I can slam shut behind me. No one follows. I'm grateful for that.

I lean against the sink with one hand, staring at the money with another. No one knows that about my mother, or that my Pa was shot. Or that he used to beat me. I have dreams about it sometimes, real bad dreams full of red and shouting. I wake in a sweat sometimes, but no one knows. At least, I don't think any of the Manhattan boys do.

What does Twitch want with me? I can smell the stink of the Harlem leader beneath all of this garbage. Twitch is cunning, I've heard, though I've never met him. He has Jack and Spot worried, and that makes me wary. Those two are rarely concerned with other leaders.

What else does Twitch know? What other information does he have in his grasp? I have to tell Jack. I have to tell _someone._

I turn on the sink and wash off my hands, letting the rusted water turn red before twisting it off. I dry my hands on my pants, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm terribly pale. To be honest, I look like shit.

When I re-enter the bunk room, I get many inquisitive stares. I clear my throat, then throw the twenty-five cent piece on the floor.

Wearily, without explaining myself, I glare at the money and stomp on it. "Don't touch it," I warn the boys, then throw myself down on my bunk. The jovial murmurings are dampened now, darkened by my sudden change of mood. They don't know what's going on, or who I spoke to. Mush tries to speak with me but I shake him off in irritation. Jack has to be the first to know. Jack, and only Jack.

I can't sleep. As boys return to their bunk beds, I can hear gentle snores and the rustling of them getting comfortable in their sleep. I'm so disturbed by my situation that it continues to haunt me. When I close my eyes, I see the money. I can hear Ferry's snide words in the back of my mind.

_"Say hi to Davey for me!"_

David. David's the one leaking information.

The Walking Mouth.

Fuck.


	4. Just Breathe

-

David

-

  


My sheets are twisted into a wad at the bottom of my empty bed. I awaken from where I am curled on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Jack didn't bother to wake me up as he left. No, he would rather allow me to sleep on the cold, hard floor, sacrificing my comfort for him. Asshole.

  


"David! David!" How is it that little brothers possess so much energy this early in the morning? Les is jumping up and down beside me, his small face beaming. He runs to the window, looking out hopefully at the empty fire escape. "Where's Jack?"

  


"He had to go," I reply sleepily, muffling my voice with the pillow Jack so graciously allowed me to have. I rise with a groan, wiping my eyes on my sleeve. Too early. This is way too early to be awake.

  


"Aw," Les makes an extremely disappointed noise, but in seconds shakes it off and scampers to the kitchen, where I can hear my mother making the preparations for breakfast. I stretch as I stand, clumsily making my way to our closet. I pull on a button-up shirt over my undershirt and a pair of pants, grabbing my hat. As I pass the bathroom I pump some water into my hands and splash it over my face.

  


There is a mirror above the sink. I look into it as I dry my face off with a rough green towel, my skin slightly red from the vigorous rubbing and cold water.

  


I don't look like me. I look like someone foreign. Who is that blue-eyed, tired boy staring back at me? His hair has the same unruly blond curls as mine, but there is such a weary expression on his face that he can't possibly be me. His eyes, those dark, denim-blue eyes, look haunted. So scared, and yet so angry.

  


Who is that?

  


Is that me?

  


That anger in my expression...shit. Shit, shit, and more shit.

  


I look like Twitch.

  


What has happened to me?

  


Who am I?

  


I quickly lock the door to the bathroom and sit heavily on the toilet. The lid of it is down, and a little crocheted cover that my sister made cushions the seat. I bury my face in my hands, my knobbly knuckles pressed against my forehead. 

  


Breathe, David. Just breathe. 

  


In, out. Slowly, slowly, smoothly, let the air fill your lungs before escaping. Watch the dark spot on the ground that your mother can't get off, no matter how long she scrubs at it.

  


Racetrack. The world is spinning quickly, like one of those spinning platforms at the playground of my old school. Several students would hold tightly to the rails, and two students would run them in circles, spinning them until they teetered off, laughing. Laughter. Coarse in my ears, false laughter. It hurts. Fuck, does it hurt.

  


Jack is going to take out Racetrack. Twitch sent a boy last night to take care of Race, make it seem like he had been consorting with the Harlem newsies. God, I have to get there. I have to get there as quickly as I can.

  


I unlock the door and bolt to the kitchen. I snatch a piece of toast from my startled mother and hurtle out the front door, down the hallway, down the five flights of stairs. Behind me I can hear Les's confused shouting and my mother screaming at me to come back and take my brother to work. It's early, isn't it? About six thirty in the morning. I can make it. I have to make it.

  


My feet pound against the cobblestones as I race to the Lodging House, shoving the toast in my mouth, trying not to choke on the dry bread. I nearly knock over an elderly woman, apologizing beneath my breath as I dart away. Two more streets to go. There, there's the corner of the first street. There! There it is! I can see it now, the sign and the building. The familiarity of it brings hot tears to my eyes. What have I done?

  


Someone is sitting on the steps. Someone who looks remarkably like Snipeshooter, playing idly with a rock. He throws it up into the air and catches it, blocking my access to the door.

  


"Where're you'se goin' in such a hurry, Mouth?" Crane sneers at me.

  


"Out of the way, Crane," I growl, my face hardened into a scowl. The insolent boy just stares upwards, grinning.

  


"You should've seen 'im last night, Mouth. Didn't know what had hit him. Jack's in there right now, talkin' to Blink. I think he'll be the one to go next. Whaddya say?" His tone is so conversational that something inside me snaps. I lean down so that my face is inches away from his, then grab a fistful of his shirt and yank him to his feet.

  


"This isn't a game. Don't you _see _that? This was never a game!" I snarl at him, flecks of my spit landing on his cheeks and in his eyes. He winces, squirming in my hands.

  


"Lemme go!" He demands angrily, shoving at me with open hands. I drop him, watching with satisfaction as he hits the ground heavily, like a stack of wet papes. Crane watches me warily from his position, sprawled uncomfortably on the stairs.

  


"Not a game? Then maybe you shouldn't be winnin' all this," Crane says slowly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a fistful of coins. Shit. With that, we could afford a real doctor for my dad, maybe send Les back to school.

Who is more important to me? My family or my friends? Who have I known longer? Who cares more for me? Suddenly the solution is so clear that the day seems brighter.

  


"Right," I take the coins carefully into my pocket, trying to slow down my quickened breath. I tug my hat on over my curls, unbuttoning the top half of my shirt. "Blink, you said?"

  


"Yeah, Blink," The Harlem newsie replies nonchalantly. He winks at me and struts away.

  


I pause before banging on the door to the Lodging House. Kloppman lets me in, grumbling under his breath. He makes me swear that I won't go upstairs, that I will wait for the boys down here. I catch a glimpse of myself in the old man's glasses.

  


I look so certain, so unafraid. My pockets are heavy with money. Confidence flows out of every pore of my body.

  


Who am I?

  


I am David Jacobs, a newsie of Manhattan. The Walking Mouth, trusted advisor of Jack Kelly. Someone who knows what he wants from life. Someone who will do anything to achieve what he wants.

  


Yes, that's who I am.

  


But I'm also a traitor.

  


Breathe, David. Just breathe.


End file.
